Loft Brand Cigarettes

When John & I lived together in the loft downtown
we we’re both in our early twenties
he being a couple of years younger than me
was head first into the post-21 self-destruction

I had been running in place for a couple of years
chasing the dumb gods of rock & roll
with loose Christian girls, Psychopaths, Deadbeats, Drunks,
Losers, & Women who love Losers
like an old cartoon I just kicked up dust
with some invisible hand against my chest
the Earth beneath my feet shoveled by my shuffling determination
until I was deep running in my grave
I was ready to lie down for the count
& leave that roadrunner be

John was still working at the coffeeshop
did the entire time we lived there
I’d already quit
& was sometimes fucking this horrible lying brat of a woman
to pay my half of the rent
in the beginning

At first we slept in the big open room
a couple of feet away from each other in the dark & empty space
one on the futon, the other on the chair

Don’t remember when we got the fishtank we used as a writing desk
but I bet John picked it up on the street or by a dumpster
left for the pickings by some one-time aquatic habitat enthusiast
before we got that tank though there was this big box
which we had packed all John’s things in when he left home

That was the first time I’d met John’s father,
I wouldn’t see him again until we were moving out,
he came by to help us patch-up all the holes in the wall
we put in, fighting drunkenly in the winter

In between John & I cut ourselves off from the main vein
John built a cocoon of the place
picking up every couch he saw on the side of the road
it should’ve been ridiculous but most people enjoyed the luxury of it
visitors could be guaranteed two full cushions of American sofa

That old American furniture
that is unceremoniously burgled from Grandma’s houses
around the world
was being collected for a perpetually growing exhibit
in our living room

The fabric was rich with texture, patten & design,
thin corduroy rivets massaged your every aching muscle
with each subtle shift

Most of our visitors had no idea though
they came over at night
& no number of lamps could light that cavern

The ceiling was so high & the walls so long
that you could see a radiating aura around each bulb
a clear outline of their effect on the darkness
& something about just seeing that
made them seem always dim & dying
or like so much candlelight flickering hot above it's own wax

We never could afford A.C. so we kept the windows open most of the time
& sounds from the street would drift up to us at night
we’d holler at the bums & smash&grabbers,
kids our age in from the county & out for a night in the clubs
the street would answer us too
& we would meet it
sometimes drunk, sometimes naked, mostly with streams of warm urine,
hostility, laughing, gibberish, unintelligible declarations
of self & country

So people came over like they were going out for the night
I never knew why
it was a no-holds barred slugfest in there
I never wondered then, but I wonder now
if they thought that John & I were only like that for company
because the fight never stopped when they left
& John & I stayed the same animals when the sun came up

After a good night we’d pilfer from the ashtrays their choicest butts
& between forefinger & thumb
we’d roll out their contents into a bowl
& roll a couple of smokes
a little bit menthol, a lotta Camel, some already handrolled Bugle & Top,
the occasional slutty Marlboro, a little grass if we were lucky
they always tasted aged & roasted
& we smoked them first thing after when we woke up
& laughed & scoffed & coughed & took a good look around the place

Packing for a Spring Funeral

He called me last night in hysterics
and told me his father was dead

I couldn’t believe it at first
being as it was untimely or at least, without warning.

It felt like answering a 911 call,
the suddenness, the gravity, the fear & the sorrow,
struck me all at once.

I tried to focus on the words,
I tried to make sense of their meaning,
I tried to console him,
but it was like the phone was suddenly a hot rock in my hands,
that I couldn’t let go of for the life of me.

I never know what to say in unreasonable situations;
I can’t tell lies or restrain my sympathy.

I never can stop apologizing for pointless tragedies.

I asked if he needed anything & he invited me to the Funeral.


I was talking about him this morning,
and about how I could scarcely imagine his pain,
about how important it was to be there by his side.

I was talking about him and then I was talking about myself.

I said I’d spent my whole life
trying to be a better man than my father
and how he don’t recognize me now when we meet.

He can’t see any of himself in me
and I should feel accomplished for meeting my goals,
but I don’t.

I still just want it all to have never happened.

I would rather be the son of a man who didn’t want me,
than the son of nobody at all.

I cried like a ten year old,
I choked as much of it down as I could
and I felt like some kind of idiot,
breaking down for the loss of a father,
who wasn’t even mine in the first place.


I had to go out to the mall and buy a new suit,
last Funeral I went to was my Grandfather’s in a country church,
it was another Spring Funeral,
but I wore a light linen jacket, cream colored shirt, slacks & a tie.

The linen jacket doesn’t fit me any longer,
and I don’t feel comfortable in any of my own clothes.

Maxims for the use of our Modern Elderly

My forehead is a lot bigger these days,
but it don’t mean my brain’s gotten any larger.

You won’t believe me,
but I remember this all happening before.

I know my welfare
is of no concern to congress,
but it matters to me,
nonetheless.

Rosy lips don’t mean much these days.

I’m a miracle of modern medicine,
the prized stallion of a multi-million dollar industry.

I don’t fear being put down for a lame leg.

I am in the garden of my life,
I can see the sun from wherever I can stand.

Fuck You, I’m taking the Bus!

I look at the TV,
I watch the news,
I don’t know who any of these people are,
I don’t know how they got there.

I already know who’s going to miss me,
when I’m gone.

References

“It is natural
to give a clear view of the world
after accepting the idea
that it must be clear.”
-Albert Camus

“The great enemy of the truth
is very often not the lie –
deliberate, contrived & dishonest,
but the myth,
persistent, persuasive, & unrealistic.
Belief in myths allows the comfort of opinion
without the discomfort of thought.”
-John F. Kennedy

“If a man is offered a fact
which goes against his instincts,
he will scrutinize it closely,
and unless the evidence is overwhelming,
he will refuse to believe it.
If, on the other hand,
he is offered something
which affords a reason
for acting in accordance
to his instincts,
he will accept it
even on the slightest evidence.
The origin of myths
is explained in this way.”
- Bertrand Russell

Telling the Truth about Immortality V

Confrontation

Our Hero asks of the God,
“Why have you done this to me?”

The Immortal looks down on our Hero,
he cocks his head to the side & says,
“I am not responsible
for your present condition.”

Our Hero is not steered into doubt,
he points accusingly,
& puffs up his chest,
& hopes for condemnation, shouting,
“You have shown your hand to me.
I have seen your work,
in the mortar that set
each stone to the path
on which I’ve stepped.
I demand of you, a Reason.”

The God squares his shoulders
& looks away for a long time,
but our Hero can’t say for sure,
if it was seconds or years,
waiting as he was,
declared of purpose,
& resolved to collect his payment
for the blood he’d spilled.

It had been long enough
& our Hero,
fixed so intently on his prize,
so sharply responsive to threat,
that when the words came down
from above,
their volume & clarity,
enveloped his every sense.

“There was a Winter once,
when you were very young.

There had a been a great deal of snow,
& it had been amassing on the sidewalks.

Some of the piles were miles long,
& stained with soot & smoke.

The rain appeared
as if it were being poured
from the Sky’s own swollen bucket.

Until that night,
I had never questioned
the scouring potential of a hard Rain,
but the piles received no washing,
instead,
the Rain laid sheets of ice
one after the other
until the mounds
glistened with fortification;
Their stains were sealed within them.

That is why you walked in the street
once,
you could never have scaled
the sidewalks.

I saw you in the glow of my Headlights,
every car was passing you
& each tossed ice from its tires
or displaced some black puddle
onto your person.

I was no different in my course,
nor was I playing any part in yours
beyond one of an accumulated mass
simply responding to their environment,
but then too,
just as now,
you shook your fist at me & shouted.

I ask you with no motive,
barring my curiosity,
What do you think I have done to you?”

Our Hero is quick to call,
shouting until his throat is raw,
“I will not have you lie to me.

You’d have me believe,
that you were with me in the coliseum,
& when I rose at the contest’s end
to plea for blood,
you rose beside me
& made the same plea
& your voice
rung no louder than mine.

You’d have me call you powerless,
& accept your role,
as no more significant
than my own.

Can you see any Justice in that?”

The Immortal stands in silence,
while our Hero swallows the air
in desperate resuscitation
& hates the God for appearing
to ponder,
time stretches out before him.

The voice glares again
in the mind of our Hero,

“I can see the torch of Justice
in most things.

Though, I believe, you mean to ask me,
whether I can see any Injustice,
in your example.

In History,
your kind have often believed
that Justice & Injustice
are two different forces,
or two sides of a metaphorical coin,
when in reality,
there is only Justice
& it’s absence.

Many of that mind
are great leaders of men,
& most others
are the followers of men
who personify
that error of thought.

Which would you rather be?”

Our Hero is taken aback,
he feels the emptiness of time
& fears to ponder within it.

He is aware that his fate,
is but a string
tied to an Immortal finger.

He is cautious of cunning,
but he feels out of step
with any rhythm
& the Immortal awaits his response,
“I have seen the fate of Leaders,
& those who carry them,
in the end,
one ends up with his head on a pole,
while the others
wipe the blood from their hands
onto derelict banners.”

The Immortal was quick to retort,
“Many people end
with their heads on poles
& many people
part the blood from their hands.

You have been one
or the other
many times in your life
& you have assumed
each time
that their were but two roles
in the unfolding drama,
which is to say more clearly,
your role & every other,
& you have chosen only one
for some inconsequential reason
as the part which best suited you,
but you were wrong.

Which, now, would you rather be?”

Our Hero had the taste of brass
in his mouth,
& felt, as though,
he were already transforming
into the beast
he hadn’t the courage yet
to name.

The Immortal
looks down upon our Hero again
& his eyes reflect the light
which fills the space around him.

Our Hero blacks out.

Much of life
travels by the will of others.

A hummingbird drinks its fill,
A sparrow builds its nest,
A vulture swallows its heart,
so moves the spirit of man
& our Hero also,
back to town.

Telling the Truth about Immortality IV

Foreward

We will attempt in this work
to utilize our previously stated definitions
in establishing a series of protocols
best suited for the artistic interpretation
of Immortality
in the Modern Myth.

However,
we must be sure of one thing
before we continue.

We must understand that the Supernatural
is not, intrinsically, the work of our Immortals.

In neither,
our literary consciousness
nor any
historically established moral consciousness.

If we are to Speak the Truth of Anything
it is our obligation
& our purpose
to Look On our Subject
in absolute isolation
& outside of influence.

We look through the Microscope
or we don’t look at all.

Methods

I find no great burden in proclaiming
that our historical canon of Myth
has failed to express even one word
on the Truth of Immortality.

But for all its flaws,
it is our Form
& from it we must establish our foundation.

That is not to say,
that our Myth’s monumental catalog
is, in any way, an inadequate means
to our projected ends.

For our classical Myth is primarily
stories of men
& few stories outside of Myth
have provided
so profound a portrayal of Man
that they still ring of prophesy
in their depth & their accuracy.

So, through our Hero we run this course.

A.
Finding signs of Immortal Life
i.e.

The farm is ablaze
Our Hero becomes suddenly enlightened
A plan enters his mind

The Wife, the Kids, The Horses, The Dogs
in that order
he will spread wings & swoop up each of them

Our Hero appears to leap into action
but
a split-second refinement of the plan
has altered his course

It happened so fast
that the exact moment is entirely unreadable
was it
before the step
the heel on the floor
the pivot of the ankle
the leap?

Impossible to say he just leapt into action
though his course was changed,

Our Hero knows that the children must survive,
He rationalizes on behalf of his Wife
who would live as a walking Ghost
to only wisp away
if she survived to a world without her children,
so he leaps.

To the children in the barn’s loft
he leaps.

B.
Where there is Smoke, there too, is fire

Let us now look for the evidence
in the Supernatural
then we can dispute
as to what hand our Immortals might play.
i.e. in chronological order of occurrence

1.) Fire
2.) Enlightenment
3.) Heroism
4.) Doubt
5.) Time
6.) Fate
7.) Love

Now, let us refine our findings
by choice & circumstance
to fit our artistic needs.

Fire is a high likelihood,
it has baffled man since it’s inception
& despite having dissected
it’s very fabric,
Man can do little more than
estimate the proximity
of a likely occurrence,
& only by model,
attempt to predict it’s behavior.

To accept Fire
as a device of our Immortal
we must then presume
that the Fire’s path
is aligned with our Immortal’s path.

So in the objectives of our Fire
we too can look upon
our Immortal’s unseen nature.

We look closely at Fire,
it starts when a volatile material
is fed enough air
& left to the heat long enough
as to sustain it’s being
by ushering others into it’s condition.

We know Fire is a three-legged table already
& if even one of it’s needs
is swiped from it
she collapses & disappears.

We make decisions;
it is a work of art before it is a Myth,
it requires our intrusion
to fulfill the promise of its definition.

So our Fire will be a She
& we will call her Byzantine.

Byzantine may escape Mortal Reason
but she is still as much the Slave
to the Designs of Life
as any Man
& as our Hero’s embodiment of Fire
Byzantine, too,
will abide the same laws of creation.

Byzantine by design
is an unstable entity
whose contact with oxygen
& exposure to heat
causes a reaction in her
that consumes & assimilates
all it can
just to maintain itself
& she is, in her way, doomed
to a bi-polar existence
or more accurately
a nature which fluctuates with potential
but can never sustain itself
in its actualized form.

We can decide now what form
her motives will take
but we must be careful
to not interject with
those petty Human traits
that we drag with us
from & to the grave.

C.
We return to her condition,
if we are to embody Fire
than we can also
safely embody Heat & Oxygen as well.

We know our old friend, Oxygen
is always ready to make compounds
with almost everybody else.

We know he is Third in succession
for largest domain in the Universe
behind Hydrogen & Helium.

We imagine then
his scope of knowledge
surpasses all but two other Immortals.

We know his coupling with Water,
sustains all life on Earth.

Do we detect a Mythological Creation tale
in the ether of scientific Truth?

If the Father to our orphan Mortals,
the Third most powerful Immortal
in all of the universe
lays with Water
how do you think that affects
Fire’s social standing?

We find our great Irony here
for Byzantine needs Father Oxygen
to achieve her anthropomorphic destiny.

What role would our ethereal Heat,
(we will call him Q)
have to play in all of this?

We know Q too,
though he is certainly more enigmatic
than our friend,
the Big O.

He is almost as if an Omen
in his seemingly prophetic appearances,
existing only in the movement
of Energy,
from one body to another.

A potentially willful Harbinger
whose sudden appearance
in Byzantine’s Immortal life
ushers in a transfer of power?

As good a plot as any.

D.
To further unfold the fabric of our Myth
we need only continue this formula
chronologically along our Culprits.

The most crucial elements are
our choice,
the acceptance of circumstance,
the adherence to progressive logic,
& the knowledge
that we may only seek our Morals
from the Chaos.

Afterward

In Some Thoughts on Immortality
I touched upon predestination
& it’s role in Myth
in a fairly negative light
but
I want it to be clear
that predestination
is only the perceivable state
of true Chaos.

We can assume then that our Immortals
are free of that perception
& though they would clearly see
the futility of will,
they would not concede to its invalidity.

In this we find a defining conflict
between Man & Immortal.

Where Man’s will
is rendered useless
& thus
invalid in his struggle,
Our Immortal’s freedom
from the Human Condition
frees them also
from it’s hopelessness.

If we then assume
that the Future is still
the same blank slate
to our Immortals
as it is to Man
then it would appear
subjectively
as though
in the Universe of Man & Immortal
the Eternal call the shots
if only because
their shots still matter.

Frankly, that Method was exhausting.
I can’t say whether I’ll continue
to provide further examples tomorrow,
but I would welcome some feeback,
if only to encourage
this amount of effort in the future,
so come back anyway for something, tomorrow.

Telling the Truth about Immortality III

Introduction

I think we’ve covered
the abstractions on what role
the immortal & the supernatural
can play in modern myth.
So, I’ll try not to re-explain myself
though,
I will be drawing
from those abstractions
for our current examples
& if I’ve been unclear previously
on the abstract potential
of these themes,
I hope these examples
will prove to illuminate
my prior meaning.

Let’s not, however,
put too much weight on our examples,
as they are examples
& examples alone,
& not to be taken as concrete guidelines
of genre, method, or style.

I will be continuing in the stylistic vein
of the last two pieces.
The space of the work is for play
it is unstable
& sometimes confusing
but never without intention.

You, the reader,
are tasked with differentiating
the hard logic from the whimsy,
& though they speak of each other
it should be clear
that some texts
are purposed to invoke
a shift in your emotion
or cognitive path
to the liking of
me, your author.

Morals of Chaos

Accepting
that immortals are supernatural
& myth’s are moral works
which utilize the supernatural,
then any moral work
which includes immortals
has a high likelihood of riding
under the banner of mythology.

With that in mind,
an immoral work
which includes the undying
cannot hope to be called mythology,
& has to settle for
Modern Literature
or
Video Game.

For that reason
& for our combined ease
I will be utilizing the institution of Myth
in name & function,
to reference the artistic environment
in which immortals,
are most commonly portrayed.

For this foremost
should be about Morality
& its artistic language
if only because Morality
is a product of the Mortal condition,
we can assume the immortal
is outside of the Mortal condition
& so
the borders of it’s Morality.

A.
The Moral has too long served
as an excuse for Mythologers
to abandon reason
in discussing the Immortal.

If we can deny the Immortal
it’s freedom from Morality
we can thusly apply
Mortal reason to it’s actions.

This results in the historical & present
framework of modern Myth.
i.e.

Some unlucky Mortal Man
draws the scorn of a raving Immortal

Our Immortal unleashes
some Supernatural device
to smite our Mortal Man

His farm is raised by fire
& he is turned into a dog
& escapes only to be shot
under the accusation of being ravenous
His body is struck by lightning
setting the whole woods ablaze

& every year around the same time
our immortal returns
with such disgust for the wretched humanity
that wronged him all those years ago
that he attempts to burn the forests again
and watches the rodents scurry away

& that is why we do controlled burns
to this very day

B.
When we remove the Immortal
from the clutches of Morality,
a different scene unfolds before the reader.

We lose the ability to assign Mortal Reason,
to their actions
& Our Myths
must find their Moral by some alternate route.
i.e.

Our Hero lives a fine life
got a farm, a couple of horses,
some dogs to keep out the rodents
a lovely wife
for whom he tenders every affection

They’re no trouble in town
their kids do well in school
keep their noses clean
& mind their ‘p’s & ‘q’s

They live in isolation
on a plain along the forest
nearest neighbor is 60 miles away
visitors are few & far between

When our Hero purchased the little farmhouse
it had been abandoned for almost 50 years
& that was near 15 years ago now
but that first year was a hard one

They we’re clearing the land
working long days
the two of them just recently married
building pens for the horses
turning the soil
in the hot sun
day in & day out
& at nights
our Hero slept recklessly
remembering the time before his wife arrived
when a vagrant had forced his way in
while our Hero slept

The villain was drunk & smelled like a railcar
stumbled around noisily
seemingly unprepared
for the few pieces of furniture
our Hero had brought
from his grandmother’s home in KY

He was making such a ruckus
that our Hero was torn from his slumber
& slowly walked the dark hallways
shotgun held to his shoulder

In the dark he ran head on with the intruder
& they both fell back
but our Hero was quick to his feet
& had his gun upon the trespasser
who squirmed & began to weep

Our Hero held his killing shot
despite the fear in his heart
& then the vagrant began to speak very quickly
slurring all his words,

“He hadn’t known no one
to take up residence in that home
in all his years,
he was only passing through”

His only mistake in hoping for the usual shelter
the vacant home had always provided,
he cried louder & pleaded
& our Hero,
with mercy calming his quivering heart
ordered the man back into the woods

Soon after our Hero got the dogs,
picked 5 from a cardboard box litter in town
& his wife arrived
doling out unending tenderness on the puppies
as if in preparation for their one day family

The following Summer
was as hot as it had ever been
the ground was dry
& our Hero’s first crop
had been a bust
having underestimated his workload
& ending up
planting too late

The house felt like an oven
& most of the crops that survived the heat
& the drought
went to market to pay the mortgage
& fund the budding operation

They were hot & hungry but happy
& one night they put the dogs out
& made love on the quiltless bed
falling asleep naked & sweaty
until our Hero was once again jarred from sleep
by the dogs barking as if in frenzy
he ran outside
naked but armed

The dogs had cornered another boxcar refugee
chasing him up the old birch
at the edge of the fence

Our Hero had to discharge a round
to regain the pack’s attention
he shooed them back into the house
wishing they’d stop their fussing
before waking up the wife
but he could hear them
carrying on as loud as before
as he walked back to the old birch

The hobo was still there
clinging to the branches
& had to be convinced first of his safety
before he’d allow our Hero
to escort him away
so, our Hero talked him down
& was leading him out the fence
when he heard his wife
calling from the open door

Our Hero turned just quick enough
to see the pack charging in formation
the biggest at the lead

Our Hero could not calm or deter them
the pack ran the drifter back up the old birch
but the drifter could not outrun them
& the lead dog tore into his leg
hanging there by the teeth
the flesh uncurling from the calf

Our Hero discharged another shot
into the Heavens
the dogs scattered from him
& the intruder fell to the ground

He yelled to his wife to call the ambulance
& he stood there naked
between the dogs & their prize
he was naked still when the ambulance arrived
& the police with it

They had to put down the dog of course,
couldn’t be avoided in these cases
& our Hero did so honorably
& that was the last time the county cops
came out to the farm
but that was 15 years ago now
& if its mentioned at all
its between cops & over a cup of coffee
the story of a naked farmer
fighting off his own dogs
from devouring the man who aimed
to rob him

Life was good as it could get
our Hero established himself well
the dark days of struggle long in his past
& then the fires came

Later the weathermen would claim
strange atmospheric conditions
as a result of global warming
kept the rains away for too long
& the ground was dry
& the air felt like sparks
& a large scale fire was bound to happen

But it threw the small county into shock
our Hero’s farm was the first to go
it was only assumed
that they had been engulfed in the flames
& with all effort still tied up
in controlling the blaze
& the panicked townsfolk
it took a day before the authorities
could make it out to the remnants
of our Hero’s homestead

An old cop arrived before the EMTs
he’d remembered the place
maybe he responded to the call
maybe he didn’t
but he remembered the story well enough
& he expected to hear
the howling of the dogs
but it was silent as he drove up to the fence

He got out of his car,
cleaned his glasses & straightened his hat
looked up to see running towards him
a large dog covered in soot
looking rabid & confused
& he didn’t have to think
his heart leapt into his throat
& he fired three rounds into the animal
& stood upright, shocked,
& suddenly without purpose
he reached for his radio with a shaky hand
he had to call it in
report the situation
he reached slowly & unsure
& as he got his hand on it
it suddenly blared with warning
the wind had caught the fire
turned it around
& threatened to engulf everything in sight

C.
You glare at our little Hero’s story
& you cry out,
Where are my God’s,
My meddling immortal foes?
Where are the webs they’ve woven in time?
Where is the myth,
& where is the storyteller?

We return to our definitions
& our previous work

Myths
stories that a particular culture
believes to be true
& that use the supernatural
to interpret natural events
& to explain the nature
of the universe & humanity.
-wiki

Is our Hero’s story entirely unbelievable?
Is there no culture
that our Hero could’ve arisen from?
No one that could not relate,
in some way,
to his plight?

& of the Supernatural?
Was there none?
No reason beyond man’s comprehension?
Nothing criminally improbable?

Where there is smoke, there is fire
& our immortals must play some part.

We know
they are beyond mortal understanding,
their actions are the Supernatural.

So,
we follow the trail from the unexplainable
& we find our immortals there.

But,
what, of our Hero’s tale,
was beyond his own comprehension?

If,
we give our Hero any credit,
then it is easy to assume
that his own choices
were within his comprehension
(most of the time)
thusly,
under his own volition
& clearly of quite natural origins.

So,
that only leaves
every other thing
in the universe.

D.

Now,
the landscape of our Mythology
is transformed.

&
it still is,
if not more,
conceivable now
that our Immortals play a part
in the world of our Hero.

The Mythologer is freed
from the rational world
of conceivable outcomes
to inconceivable circumstance.

Mortal Man remains pet
to the will of the unconscionable
but rightly
with no sensible answer.
i.e.

Baby talk
The locking of a pen
The over-feeding
The starving
Firm reassurance
Unfathomable love
&
Un-seeable neglect

If everything beyond
our Hero’s comprehension
is logically the work
of some Immortal being
whose existence itself
baffles all of Mortal man,
our Hero’s story
is still a battle against an inescapable fate
wherein he trudges through the dark
battling invisible opponents
& fearing every thing but his own will
may already have in it
some unconscionable intent.

Our Morals are Morals of Chaos
Our Wisdom not born of Reason
Our Wisdom is born of a kind of Madness

Of the quiet Lunacy in accidental revelation
while wrapped in a veil
so tight & so thick
that most of your life is spent

kicking & screaming
& wondering if you’re alive at all.

Our Morals must speak of liberty
from unneeded suffering
in a world
where nothing is within our control.

Frankly, those Morals of Chaos are exhausting.
Come back for part IV, Methods, tomorrow.

Telling the Truth about Immortality II

Deconstruction of a Definition

According to wikipedia,
a. Myths are stories that a particular culture
believes to be true
b. & that use the supernatural
c. to interpret natural events
& to explain
d. the nature of the universe and humanity.

As good a definition as any

A. Myths are the creation of storytellers,
their existence only between pages
or in the humming vibration of oration
read to enlighten & amuse & terrify
a snapshot of a community
that harbor’s it’s own creator.

Regardless of the subject matter,
myths themselves are manifestations
of someone’s own fancy
though their creator may populate the work
with local heroes, legends, & Gods
they are secondhand replications
produced by the artist’s
singular interpretation.
i.e.

The well established
polytheistic religion of the Hellenic Republic
existed before, above, & throughout
Homer’s epic works.

Homer may have influenced the views
of those followers with his interpretation
of the God’s roles in living history.

But his work was nowhere considered doctrine
it didn’t need to be
to be effective.
The belief from which his stories
drew their models
proceeded his personal inception
in both time & influence.

Never had his Myths
shared the same space
as the devotion he laid
before his belief’s own being.

B. The Supernatural, also by wiki, is defined
as pertaining to an imagined order of existence
beyond the scientifically visible universe.

So, man is of nature,
he percieves as an animal might
though,
his awareness seperates him
from the beastial
there is a sense of self
& so also,
an environment which houses it.

He is not a part of his surroundings,
he negotiates with his surroundings
& so his perception
is dependant on the physical world
for it permits his sense of self
to exist independantly.

Because the awareness of existence
contains the awareness of self
existence then contains self
& self’s own distinctive properties.
i.e.

All ideas of faith & belief,
the concept of truth,
science dependant
on individually recorded & verified findings,
personality,
civilization,
justice,
probability,
& percievable fact.

Man’s conception of the universe
is foremost dependant
on man’s internalization
of his existence.

Nature, no less, a human construct,
so that which is Supernatural
(latin: supra "above" + natura "nature")
is above human conception.

C. When man aims to explain
the physical world
he gathers evidence,
relates the evidence to what he knows to be true,
& draws conclusions
from what he can percieve in the difference.

If myths wish to explain
that which is above human conception
then the artist gathers evidence
from all that can be ascertained,
relates that evidence
to their internalized construct of truth,
& draws conclusions
from what they percieve in the difference.

Therefore myth is the result
of the artist’s personal interpretation
of their belief in the supernatural
(all that is inconceivable)
as it relates to the accepted truths
of their personal sense of existence
(all that is conceivable)
to finally,
examine the overlay.
i.e.

The truth which is known but not understood
The actions devoid of reason
The effects which bear no consequence

D. The nature of the universe and humanity,
as far as the Mythologer is concerned,
pivots on a single point
within the grey resolve of reasoning,
where the unexplainable
& the inconceivable
meet
& expose everything
& nothing
simultaneously.
i.e.

A man standing on the rock face
eyes wide
but unafraid & without shock
The air feels like rain in the summer
usually does along the equator
damp & cool in the 8pm sun
It’s still too warm for his raincoat
in the floating rain.

A space without reason for heroes
& without reason for malice & greed
& heartache & looming pride
a reasonless world

The universe is extracted
into each bolt of lightning
that strikes the dry brush
or strikes the deep water
or strikes a man dead
or strikes him to no effect

These things are without reason
yet our historical & modern myth makers
have insisted on assigning reason to each
falling tree or squaking bird
& offering some antropomorphic entity
as a likely enough culprit.

& our Mythologer understands this.

When explaining the unexplainable
a representation or model
is often the most effective tool available
to express the unexpressable.

But it is the fault of human perception
the limit of its scope
it’s plain disability in understanding
let alone communicating
it’s own error
that keep us from telling the true stories
of how some figure we can't comprehend
is involved
in incidences
we, too, can not conceive of.

Frankly, that deconstruction was exhausting.
Come back for part III, Morals of Chaos, tomorrow.

Telling the Truth about Immortality I

The common flaw shared by all in recorded history
who’ve attempted to portray the immortals
is the insistent assumption that the eternal
behave entirely as mortals do;
albeit, mortals with inhuman power,
but mortals none the less.

I think my previous explanation of why this is so
from Some Thoughts on Immortality suffices
but I will briefly recap:

A. The immortals of myth and literature are,
in all of written record,
persistently depicted with well-established human emotions
from which their motives are fed their sole spring of sustenance.
i.e.

A loving God
A jealous Hera
A horny Dracula
A hateful Superman

B. There is enough evidence to state that
even in the mortal framework of man
there are plenty of recordable instances in which age,
& its associated experience,
produces more rational
& consistently more beneficial responses in the elder.
i.e. (entirely for your benefit)

Imagine a scientific experiment
where subjects are put through a pass/fail examination
consisting of a series of questions,
measuring knowledge, rational skills, reason, mental dexterity,
which increase consistently in difficulty.

If these questions were spaced out every 5 ft.
on an infinite & timeless plain
and to progress forward,
each examinee need answer the previous question accurately
according to testing officials.
1st being, something simple, “What fruit is this?”, a card displayed.
2nd advancing, 8x5?
33rd name 5 Mesopotamian Generals.
89th a hypothetical maybe regarding moral judgment,
role of persona, veiled mechanisms of complicated human relations.
& so & so forth like that forever.

Now if we took 5 clones
raised in identically controlled environments,
one specimen not a year old, another at 10, a third at 30,
our fourth 50, and lastly a retired gentleman of 65
& began theirs tests at precisely the same time.
Where would each be at the end of a day?
The end of a year?
50 years?
100?
10,000 years?
A million years?

C. I wouldn’t be alone in assuming also,
that knowledge, wisdom, mental acumen, and abstract reasoning,
for their entire known history, have in their individual ends always,
at their base,
aimed to resolve human suffering.
It can be said about everything from fire to the a-bomb.

D. We, as mortal man, have, for all known history,
sought the means & machinery
necessary to alleviate our own suffering.
Our combined will & prowess has always
leaned towards survival first
then the alleviation of the burden of survival.

No fear but Death has pushed us to the great lengths
of our modern society.
We live longer, our borders safer,
institutions do black deeds behind closed doors
to insure our futures,
all working to alleviate the fear of chaos,
the fear of the unknowable.
i.e.

Modern Medicine
The militarization of governments
Development of industrial materials

We aim to survive & from that civilizations uncoil,
but it is still not enough.
The people ache, they cry out, the burden is too great,
they demand motorized scooters, instant gratification,
emotional dependence,
sense of community, sense of self-importance;
the weight so unbearable, that every small pebble under foot screams agony.
i.e.

In a modern world with so little to fear,
everyone still rushes around maniacally grasping at one another,
entertaining dark thoughts, lashing out on themselves,
their motives indistinguishable.

But there is food in their bellies, roofs over most of their heads,
cars in the driveway,
children in school living under guard in apartments and condominiums.

We still fear for a perceivable future where all that will be parted from us.
We fear our lack of influence, our absence.

It is impossible to imagine a world not dependant on our perception,
literally impossible;
just try it…

1.)So a world without our perceiving can not be imagined.
2.)We can not, therefore, imagine our death, our non-existence.
3.)Yet, we know death to be true. We have the evidence.
4.)So, Death is proof that some truth is simply unobtainable.
5.)Death is an abyss in the human psyche,
the mind can not perceive it.
6.)The mind’s work is one of comprehension.
7.)Minds go in all directions, seeking information,
feeding impulses, staying alive.
8.)The one place that no man’s mind is permitted is Death.
9.)Death being one discernable attribute shared by all of mankind.
10.)The consciousness of civilization can then be said
to have only ever moved away from Death.

So knowing that all to be true,
our present (and historical) archetype
of eternals behaving as mortals,
is proven illogical:

If A (Immortal), as a defining characteristic,
is incapable of D (Death)
& B (Mortal)’s C (Behavior) is a result of D (Death)

A (Immortal)’s behavior can not be BC(Mortal Behavior)
Because BC (Mortal Behavior) is dependant on D (Death)
which A (Immortal) is incapable of
so
A (Immortal) does not equal BC (Mortal Behavior)

That’s a fallacy folks, read about it in your text books.

Frankly, that recap was exhausting.
Come back for part II, Morals of Chaos, tomorrow.

P.S. The pic is a link, as per usual.

Apologies for the Rubber Chicken Poetry Slam (Monterey, CA)

I’m happy to say now
that I’m sorry I stopped writing
& competing

You should know
that getting up there & fighting it out
with so many amazing writers
was a real pleasure every week
& when I won
it was just the icing on the cake

But I won quite a bit
& at first I was flattered
but soon turned to shame

I couldn’t understand how I could win
on what grounds
could I be deemed better
& why I had to be made the robber
I gave my winnings back to the donations
& still
I couldn’t help feeling bloody

I wanted to win at first
I liked the attention
the recognition
I aimed to please you all
I’d borrow your eyes
& look again at every word
I’d written

I won that way most
writing what I knew
would grab your attention
but as honest as it was
& it was
it was still a lie

I subjugated your perception
I was making accidents
we could all relate to
& at the same time
still feeling your push
the weight of your combined genius
& running the numbers
striving, always striving
to beat down the beast of my own
inquisition

I won & it was a lie
I was not a competitor

We were all putting on puppet shows
Screaming from inside ourselves
to fill some inflated effigy
into convulsing wildly
Dancing interpretive dances
for people we knew nothing about

Don’t read me sorely
it was still dance,
screaming,
theatre
it was still the only good reason
to wake up early & go to bed late
but I never really wanted to win it
ever

So I stopped risking it
then I stopped competing at all
went away for a while
came back to watch from afar
or not show up at all

I’m sorry I stopped playing the game
but,
I never could stand
anything
where people have to pick sides
They always make me feel
abandoned

Some Weather

It’s been raining all day
several counties under tornado advisory
the better part of the morning

The wind took all but the strongest leaves
from my lemon tree
knocked over the birdfeeders
and taken leaf & branch into the street

My back patio is holding an inch or two
of standing water
no point in sweeping it really
the rain will return heavier before dark

Tomorrow I’ll sweep the flood from my porch
let the sun finish drying it up
Just muddy tomorrow
but tonight it’ll be good & wet

When it’s like this
it’s impossible to keep the floor clean
around the doors
I’m always running out there for something
have a smoke
or a think
or to do some tiny errand
bring in the pots
unclog the gutter drain
& I’ll bring some back in with me
it’s unavoidable

But tonight the wind will be crisp & cool,
& smell like the leaves & the rain
I’ll throw on a hoodie
I’ll shroud myself
& smoke in the porchlight
Listening to the cars outside
one after the other
part tiny seas
& roar waves
crashing to break on the curb
& enfoam
to rain down
back into the street

My Biggest Problem

I never know when to quit
I cross the line every time
but I hate repeating myself
& I hate hearing things twice

I don’t understand why I’m supposed to be
taking these things so seriously
or
maybe, so gravely

I’m explaining myself well enough, aren’t I?
I believe every word that you say
I do my best to keep it cataloged
I may forget some of the details
names, times, phone numbers,
but I keep good records
on the gists of things

I blow up on people too
but its not a temper
I’m just speaking louder
because I want to be heard

I haven’t got a spiteful bone in my body
& that aint to say,
I don’t have any hate in my heart
I hate so many stupid things
but just things
& they don’t really mean anything to me
I barely ever talk about them
& think about them even less

I know how I come across to you
I get insulted some times
because you’d rather I just lie

Looking at Old Work

I’ve got nothing to say to you
all your empty menace
dissonance
& screaming about nothing at all
always thinking about who could be listening
& what you must look like to them
when folding a blanket by yourself in the late afternoon
seen through your window
or the rough language you use
talking on the phone on the patio

You & I are more than all that
more than vessels & machinery
more than the sum of our leashes

Make no mistake
guilt is as much a part of our lives now
as it ever was
Don’t feel bad
for thinking about spring
as the starter gun
for fucking all summer long
You aren’t the only one
who doesn’t mind
the smell of their own sweat
You aren’t alone
in this world
there are millions of places
that feel like the center of the universe

Getting Ready to Move

We gave away boxes & boxes of Christmas decorations
there were so many in storage
that it had become impossible to keep any real account of

So much of it she had kept in the hope that one of us kids
would want to carry them on in our own traditions
but as for me
I'd always believed that she had kept them for herself

They were stacked there though

all of them
with X-MAS written in marker on the side
& not from under the twinkling lights
but the glaring daylight from the open garage door
we looked at each one & wondered
why we had them in the first place
who had liked this or that way back when
did it have any significance at all

Under scrutiny
many looked cheap, ragged or just silly
despite having been staples on our tree
for as long as I could remember

We separated them
some for the Goodwill
some for the trash
some to keep

Strangely
the ones we threw away were mostly handmade
from some cousin or aunt
Shells glued & glittered
little toy soldiers or teddy bears affixed at the center
like a Venus De Milo
conceived by a moron

We kept the ones with dates
or ones that referred back to some significant timeframe
The Army, college, career choices & changes, births
& death in those that reminded us of our departed

It was easier than I’d thought it would’ve been
there were no tears
no misty eyes even
no wistful recalling of days gone by
neither debate nor despair
we packed it up
with a couple of other things
old computer monitors & keyboards

Goodwill took all the decorations
boxes of them
without question
but they said the computers
couldn’t be taken without an accompanying CPU
and had to be no more than 5 years old

Last Night’s Dream

It was my birthday and I was far from home
but not alone
& I’d invited all of my friends up
to my house on the outside of town
but I was working late at the tobacconist
held up by a trio of bickering brothers
all locals, tanned, lean,
hair similarly cropped

I didn’t speak their language well
or I felt they weren’t telling me the whole truth
either way
I was straining to make peace
& staying later than I’d expected

My friends were dropping by on the way up
surprised to still see me working
I told them to go ahead
make some drinks
I’d be along shortly

I continued to try and appease the brothers
listening intently
my arms crossed, my neck outstretched
& some of the guests were back in town
checking in on their way to the liquor store

They talked to me as if they couldn’t see
the three brothers at all
& I was trying to reassure them
to not fret
enjoy themselves
all the while my mind preoccupied
by what small details I could be missing
with my attention pulled from the boys

My friends were gone & back again
just as fast
only drunker
pouring themselves into the shop
& pulling me out by the arms
despite my polite protest
the trio appeared increasingly more frustrated

I got frustrated too
& sent everyone out
the partiers back to the party
the brothers back to the wilderness
nothing resolved

I locked up shop
& began to head up the road
along the docks
back home to a lit & loud house
& the night was darker & cooler
than I would’ve thought
I walked down to the water

A brown skin girl was there
bare from the waist up
gathering water
I surprised her
but she didn’t feel threatened or ashamed
or like she’d been caught
she walked over to me
& she was plain but pretty

Holding me,
I wept against her bare thick breasts
I wept lustlessly in the moonlight over the pier
I was dry save the sweat
despite the waves lapping at the shore

Class as a More Tangible Thing

My mother grew up well
Her father had no small success
in Real Estate Development
They had a maid growing up
Her mother was home to cook dinner
every night
& yet, she hated it.

I think she harbored the hope
that common families
with their duel incomes,
softball games,
PTA,
& summer roadtrip vacations,
despite the hardships
we’re still somehow happier.

She, like me, pursued poverty
at first chance of legal liberty
worked civil service jobs
a Cop until they forced her out
for having us kids
then a Nurse.

I have a picture of her in her Whites
Nurse’s cap perched atop
her perfectly permed head
just smiling wide-eyed
like the picture of Nursedom
in the 1940s.

I was raised among solid wood furniture
mostly wedding presents
pictures of hens
cross-stitch
good china unused.

My mother always worked
after my Father left
which was as long as I’d been around
My brother & I we’re latchkey kids
my bike was a hand-me-down
of my brothers
cleaned up real nice
we had traditions around the TV

My mother was a working class hero
local news coverage
of a struggling family
doing what they can
for themselves & their communities
She met a man
a fellow volunteer from Ohio
& they married.

My mother couldn’t have been further
from her upbringing
She’s lived that way her whole life
& now her aching heart
keeps looking for love
in the lower middle class
& I can’t convince her
that she’s lived her whole life
split up
with her head in the clouds
& her heart on the ground
& neither place
holds any guarantee of love.

Dead birds on the side of the interstate through Caseyville, Il.

Sun,
If there was ever a time to relent it should’ve been then
I would’ve carried my bags in the rain
just to not have to drag them across state lines
in that Midwest Summer heat.

Was picked up with my thumb out
about a ten minutes drive from downtown St. Louis
I can’t remember a thing about them
don’t even remember if they were man or woman
You’d think I would
considering the chunk of my ass they saved
but they delivered me so speedily
from what would’ve been
the better part of a morning’s suffering
that their heroic act seems to eradicate
the significance of itself.

It is as though they robbed me of a would-be memory
& that which occurred
regardless of how significant
was still so far from what should have been recorded
that I couldn’t connect the synapses
between the dead birds, the heat,
the strap, with each step, grazing against
the sweat soaked shoulder of my t-shirt
& arriving downtown.

Together Through Life

When this comes out

I will buy it

You hear me?

BUY IT

It will be the feel good hit of the summer

HEED MY WORDS

That is all.

P.S. Read the link!

Grumble

Sometimes,
I am made to have uncomfortable conversations with people
& it becomes painfully clear
by the strange shit they say
that they weren’t allowed to watch all the channels on the TV
when they were kids
& I try to be nice
listen respectfully & hope to reach an agreement to simply disagree
mutually
but it never happens & I get lost shortly after
& start looking for the door,
retracing my steps,
trying to remember what I’m doing there.

I just stop arguing with them
& start arguing with myself
& I don’t know why I do it
whether to pursue a more sensible opponent,
or to convince myself of their argument,
I put myself under the spotlight
& begin to pour out buckets of my own bullshit
all the while reassuring myself
that I’m doing it for them
that they need it & they need me to keep talking.

I try to remember to keep the volume down
& not smoke so many cigarettes
I make sure to not go too fast
& I try to act graciously
I preach tolerance & equality
I beg to excuse my ignorance
I beg in sweeping curtsies under the spotlight
I do it every time I bow
but like an idiot
I never bow out.

Free Chorus!

4/4

F
I wouldn't have you
Gm
Any other way
Bb
Any other way
F
won't do

F
The stars wont be here
Gm
Every other day, (every other day)
Bb
Every other day, (every other day)
F
It's true


Outro ad infinitum

Some Thoughts on Immortality

The common flaw in most depictions of immortality is in the assumption that the would-be immortals share the same emotional drives as mere mortal man. They are personified by their penchant for greed, paranoia, jealousy, fear, romantic love, insecurity & courage. The assumption here is that all these irrational displays of human behavior are somehow truths inherent in all living things and not the products of man’s obsession with mortality and the web that we weave running from death in search of meaning.

By assuming our immortals, in despite of their infinite knowledge, can not ascend even a human’s glandular impulses, we present a universe where if all the knowledge procured by immortality is useless in overcoming even the simplest human impulse than human nature is an unconquerable field & man can no more change in his lifetime than an immortal can in ten thousand of his years.

So, in assuming that the eons of understanding, exclusive to our perceived omnipotent immortals, can not resolve even one’s personal conflicts, then it is not to be known by anything on this plane, it is a truth beyond the living.

Therefore, under this belief, no conscious action in this universe, done better by bird, fish, dog, man or immortal, alters by the will of any living force. All living things follow a path of which they cannot vary and so if failure has no diversion then these actions are as predestined.

Predestination takes the heart out of will. All stories are at their root a tale of transcendence, boy to man, man to hero, man falls from grace, man becomes a villain, a villain is redeemed, and at the center of this transcendence is an object of desire, which regardless of details, at its core an end to suffering.

If immortal & man are powerless to change, than they are impotent, there is no end to suffering, it cannot be averted, so transcendence is denied them. We can only rectify this with the assumption of an even higher power, one with knowledge that transcends the living plane, whose will is the will of all things. However, his actions then must be rooted in knowledge divine, withheld from living things & in it, an objective worth pursuit.

However, in most cases this scenario is devoid of its keystone secret divinity and topples accordingly. When the higher power is assumed, as in a great deal of ancient myth and modern literature, to suffer the same emotional flights, be it an anthropomorphic personification or gods attributed with actions in accordance with emotions, it must also be true that they suffer the same achilleios pterna. Their suffering then too can not be abated & the prize is once again removed from the occasion.

In this context, man, immortal & god have but one conflict; the war against fate. Their story is running against the winds, the logic of their universe is entirely dependant on fate, all tales than come to not. This is used to great effect in the likes of Oedipus, etc., but in the end only reinforces the theme of futility.

In fact you will see predestination in the most modern tales of the like, a destiny foretold, a chosen seeker, a sacred path, etc. These stories have tidy endings for the most part, what is foretold comes to be, and inevitably the audience is dullfully rewarded for seeing it till the end.

But I don’t imagine it would be very difficult to see the flaw in this. We can easily see in our mortal lifetimes the progressive states of our emotions, reclassifications & obsoletion. How does a boy speak of love compared to the language of young men, working adults, recent retirees & old men?

Surely emotions become more plentiful with age & certain juvenile ideas wash out to the wayside; with each passing day our shared sense of pride, regret, faith, & despair deepen in weight & meaning, while words like grumpy, excellent, & sad are little more than ironic references.

There is a constant redefining of our minds as more information becomes available which produces recordable phases so distinct that each of us, at any time, would barely be able to recognize ourselves in the proceeding period. So to assume this process, over an eternal lifespan, in anyway resembles at 40,000 years that of a 20 year old version of itself could only be made further absurd by doubling the numbers.

So I would assume then that a more informed & more modern interpretation of immortality would scarecely recall those ancient ideas of mischievious & lovelorn demi-gods and attempt to portray immortality with these principles in mind. But any attempt at this draws up a very different framework.

For example, if a tale is, as they usually are, to involve the intertwining of man & mortal, would these men of eternal knowledge & burden have any shared frame of reference to the seemingly perpetual state of alien adolescence in man?

Their words would be of crystaline refinement, their perception otherworldly to man. However, this isn’t impossible, you can imagine a hyper-magnified relationship wherein our immortals play the settler and mankind the native. Our immortals know the words for corn, they inventory the basic superstitions of the people, they understand what the color of certain beads means to the chiefs.

They can interact with man but their intentions would be wholly obscure to the hero & the audience. Our hero & our audience then would assume that all actions are disassociated with reason. Our hero would act fruitlessly to obtain that which he can not understand, he will pursue the eternal & be lost hopelessly in its depths, acting with all the conviction of man confronted with complete ignorance.

All this while our immortals must come to the author’s discretion on whether infinite knowledge results in seamless unity, islandic individuality, or organized segregation. On each, entirely different, approach there is untapped potential for the artistic cannon but I am concerned most with the latter of the three.

Conflict is, arguably, an inevitable outcome in the affairs of any two parties & to hypothesize on what manner of subject would be cause to conspire for the immortals is to attempt to first imagine the thought processes of one individual with an infinitely greater comprehension, repeat ad nauseum, then gleam from it an issue of controversial debate.

Our storyteller is better off assigning arcane actions to randomly selected figures and speaking their tale while grasping at straws. Man cannot conceive these things, its inherent in the logic if knowledge is obtained over time then man is incapable of gathering a fraction of the knowledge of the eternal and with every passing day it’s potential falls further into smaller divisions of zero.

I wont draw the unnecessary parallel here but for the artist to interpret the immortals, they must have knowledge beyond the ringing truth of their own death, they must see past the veil, forego self & meaning. These tales of the immortals are all tales of madness.

Spring Break '09

The neighbor’s kids have been out on the streets all week
There are cars parked in front of houses with their engines running
well into the evening
While I’m still taking my coffee into the early afternoon
they’re out there with scooters & bikes
performing in some strange game that is all but lost to me
& I think of children at play
& how I’m supposed to be convinced that these are all acts of joy
I’ve seen looks from afar that seemed to me full of sincere terror
but they’re out there before the birds in from the lake start picking at the earth
for worms
& after lawns are mowed, leaves are raked, trash has long been taken in
The music pouring out of open doors & windows
makes them seem like a hazy reminiscence on a digital camcorder
O’ the sadness though
It seems like no one is going to work these days
&the grocery stores are as busy at 2 as they are at 6
The streets feel so full but abandoned
& the children that run this cul-de-sac have no sense of personal property
They’re out in my driveway & running across my lawn
but they’re not hurting anything & anyway
I just rent that lawn & it’s not my problem
& they don’t feel like invaders no matter how Mexican they are
I wish my brother were here to see this
how sometimes they’re as alone as everyone else these days
because everyone we know is presumed dead or living alone
in spaces near & far where we feel we’ve lived & died
& left some ash of ourselves scattered like the aftermath of the 4th of July
I will wish he was here well into the summer
under the hope that I can save him
under the delusion that I am the man for it
I will hope he’s here & gone by November
when the winds are cold
& in thick jackets & caps
we’ll embrace & wish each other the best

A Facsimile of an Approximation

Inside me my heart sings slow songs with double-time drums & the words are inconsequential next to the inflection in the voice surrendering the rest of the world.

Inside my head there are thoughts I’ve stolen from everyone I love, masked dances of ritual & hidden reconciliations.

Inside me is a ghost that makes you look worse than you are by showing you in a light more true & more favorable.

Of all the impossible things

The quavering voice
over the long winds
lost in reverberation
afraid to be born
tears into the past 40 years
like a lion

Picking up someone else’s pace
whining & crying
resolving into Gospel calls
that tax your steps
with every dribbling crescendo
& heebeejeebee

When it finally gets zipped up
it just buzzes against the teeth
& fills your mouth with hot static
your tongue lifted up
clucks & shivers
the whole time

You’re good at bat
She says let’s get a drink
& you drink
Shiner, whiskey & soda
& listen to her talk about history
& feel for the fire
in her hips
standing on the dance floor
watching the band play